Category Archives: Weird World

Sudden iPhone Death Syndrome

Sudden iPhone Death Syndrome

My iPhone is attached to my hip – literally. If I don’t have it swinging in my hand as I walk, it is in my handbag and sits about hip level. It’s the last thing I look at before I go to bed at night, and the first thing I check in the morning while sipping my cup of coffee. I love my iPhone, and consider it one of my life necessities.

So you can imagine, on a lonely Saturday night, when I feared the worst had happened, that my trusty iPhone slash portable computer, slash camera, slash watch, slash Rolodex of friends whose numbers I don’t know as iPhone knows them for me, slash – well, phone – appeared to have fallen to its death, that a horrible sickening panic struck me.

How did the horror happen, you ask?

Last Saturday night, when my friend came down with strep throat at the last minute, I suddenly became plan-less. So, in an effort not to blow my Saturday night, and also to not completely waste my $40 blowout, I decided to shoot a video for my blog. It was an exceptionally warm winter California night, so I chose to shoot it on my patio. Looking for the best angle to optimize the image, umm okay, the image being me, I decided that I needed to have my iPhone placed as high as it could be. Every girl knows that when you take a picture from a high angle that you look your absolute skinniest – trust me, try it – and I decided that a skinny Janell image was exactly what this blog video was going to need.

So, at nine pm at night, and pitch black outside, I turned on my outside light. With some heavy masking tape, I proceeded to secure my iPhone to the stucco patio wall, placing it as high as I could possibly reach. When the iPhone was taped in position, and when my patio chair was placed at its perfect angle, I turned the camera to video, made sure the flash was on, and hit the 10 second delay so I would have just enough time to turn around and position myself for my first take.

I hadn’t even gotten back to the chair when I heard the sound of the tape ripping off of the stucco. As I turned around to run back to the wall, the last bit of tape gave way as I watched as my precious iPhone fell to the ground. And then somehow – it must have been the height and the force of the fall – it continued its trajectory to the left, and slipped off my balcony, falling four flights down to the ground.

I thought I was going to puke. I looked over the rail of my balcony, and I saw my precious iPhone on the neighboring property walkway. I knew, at this moment, that my iPhone chances of survival were minimal, to say the least. I threw on my flip-flops and ran down four flights of stairs as quickly as I could. Finally outside, I stood on the other side of my phone, as a large metal gate about 10 feet tall was standing in my way. There was only one thing I could do. I took a deep breath and proceeded to scale the gate, wishing the whole time I wasn’t in shorts and wearing slippery flip-flops.

I think I had one of those ‘amazeballs’ moments, when somehow you are able to do something that you truly didn’t think you were capable of. On any given day, if anyone would have shown you the gate and the prickly hedge that ran the length of the separating wall between the two buildings, you would have thought it impossible to scale. My super human strength was in full play this night, as this ‘beast’ of a girl somehow managed to climb the gate, hoist my legs over the top – yet scratching the shit out of them in the process – and jump over the 10 foot tall gate, landing squarely on my flip-flops.

As I held my breath, I picked up my iPhone. You can imagine my surprise to see that there wasn’t even a crack in the glass, and upon first glance it appeared to be working. I truly could not believe my luck, and sent out a few texts, emails and made a call just to make sure that everything was as it should be. I felt as lucky as if I had won the lottery that night, and was grateful that I had purchased an expensive cell phone case, as clearly, it was the only thing that saved my phone.

Two nights later however, when at a party, my iPhone’s flash didn’t work. I couldn’t figure it out. The following morning at work, when I took the case off, I noticed that the screen had popped out on the side of the phone, and upon closer inspection, my iPhone’s frame was bent all to hell. I guess I had been so relieved that it was in one piece I didn’t think to take off the protective case to check out the phone.

Okay, now I was back to that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. A work colleague suggested I try calling the Mac store to make an appointment to bring my phone in. After 42 minutes on hold, I finally was able to get an appointment to see a ‘Mac Genius’ in two days. Fearing my iPhone wouldn’t last the two days I decided to google iPhone repair on the internet, and found a place ironically called…. LA iPhone Repair.

I frantically called the number, and spoke to a man named Eli who reassured me that ‘everything was fixable.’ Feeling somewhat hopeful, I could barely wait until the end of the day, so I could take it in after work and show him my phone, praying that he was indeed an iPhone doctor, and save my baby. I had a dentist’s appointment at the end of the day, so on my way to the appointment, I dropped off the phone with Eli and hoped that he truly was a miracle worker.

Now at the dentist, seated in the waiting room area, I went to pull out my iPhone to check my emails, but then remembered I was iPhone free. Even though I had just dropped off the phone, my brain was on auto-drive as my iPhone was such a part of my life, that playing with my phone was a habit, like smoking, one that is actually uncontrollable.

I felt naked, I felt uncomfortable, I felt unsafe and actually nervous without my iPhone. What would happen if there was an earthquake at this moment and I didn’t have my phone? How would I know the time without my phone? God forbid I should lose track of time and not make it back to the phone repair store in time, and yikes….have to live without my iPhone for the entire night. At this point panic started to set it, and I kept asking my dentist the time, to the point I was driving her nuts.

Finally, my teeth were deemed clean and healthy and I was in my car and headed back to LA iPhone Repair. Eli informed me that I needed a part, and he would order it, and it would only cost me $40 to fix my phone. I couldn’t believe it. Plus, on top of that, he had popped back in the screen, and straightened my frame, and my phone looked perfect. I went home happy, and he didn’t charge me a dime for the work he had done.

Four days later the part arrived, and I cheerily dropped off my iPhone. Eli said to come back in three hours. Unfortunately for me, when I returned to the store, I received bad news from Eli the iPhone doctor. He said something was wrong with the ‘mother board’ and all he was able to fix was the low beam flashlight. The high beam was not working, and he said it would be very expensive to fix. I would need to replace the phone or send it to Mac to have it fixed, as I had insurance on the phone.

I was disappointed, although it still was working better than before, and once again Eli – even though he had spent hours working on my phone – refused payment from me. His policy is that if he can’t fix your phone, he does not charge. Even when I offered, as he had spent time and had improved my phone, he would not take my money. In a city the size of Los Angeles, it’s nice to know that there are still good, honest people out there.

And at the end of the day, a week after this ‘iPhone tragedy’ had initially occurred, I was grateful that I had paid for insurance, and filed a claim to have my iPhone replaced. At least my phone was still working, and getting a refurbished iPhone—although not ideal, is still better than NO iPhone at all.

The week of worry had put things in perspective, and truthfully, I think we should always try to find the silver lining in every cloud, and be grateful when things are actually within our realm to somewhat easily deal with.

So the moral of this story is….

Get the expensive case, trust me; it’s worth every penny you spend.

OMG, we are more addicted to our devices that most of us even realize.

And, I think my days of dangerous outdoor photography will not be an option for my new iPhone, as this girl has learned her lesson.

If you want to see this story unfold before your eyes, check out my You Tube video version below! (it was a crap load of work!)

FEELING GROOVY and 5 Ways to Rock Your Vibe

Feeling Groovy, and 5 ways rock your vibe

Spring, it has me finally FEELING GROOVY again. After the past two months of continual rain and bone chilling temperatures in the high 40’s and low 50’s, we in Los Angeles are once again cautiously optimistic that the warm weather is back to stay. After only a few 80 degree days, Southern California has experienced a ‘new-kind-of-facelift’, let’s call it an ‘attitude facelift’: the cars in Beverly Hills are once again sparkly-clean, and the rain-induced road rage has dwindled—people will even slow down to let you merge into a left lane; dogs are happily trotting along the sidewalks instead of dodging puddles; restaurants are packed and the ‘leave your umbrellas at the door’ signs have been cheerfully tucked away; and people are smiling, strangers are actually smiling at you. After all, it’s been a tough few months—what with the rain, the cold weather, and the flu bugs— Los Angelenos are truly appreciating the beautiful weather we so often take for granted. Los Angeles is FEELING GROOVY. It’s like the magic of Christmas has swept over the city, and people are noticeably happier, more patient, nicer, and kind. It’s weird for LA, but I like it.

So how do we keep the FEELING GROOVY vibe from dissipating, once the ‘terror’ of the past few months has been swept from our minds?

Here are some ways I remind myself to keep FEELING GROOVY, even when the chips seem like they are down; or when I feel like I have been dealt a bad hand; or when I wallow in the negative and forget to see the positive around me; here are some ways I put life into perspective and remind myself of how lucky I am…

Five ways to keep on… FEELING GROOVY

Take a walk on the wild side. Yeah you heard me, put on your flip-flops and carry your high heels in your bag and walk to your nightly destination. Walking makes me happy, gives me a calming yet endorphin-buzzing feeling, and also helps to burn off a few calories before I consume alcohol and canapes. Walk! Pretend you live in NY! And in a few blocks you will be, FEELING GROOVY!

Dance, Dance, Dance! You don’t need a partner; ‘Dancing with Myself’ as the great Billy Idol sang, is fun and freeing. Make a Vine or a video and post it to Facebook and Instagram. Share your joy, and when you share your joy, you start to believe in your own infectious FEELING GROOVY vibe. Trust me; check out my happy dances on my social media sites!

Take a ‘perspective pill’; this pill doesn’t require swallowing potentially harmful substances, it just strains your eyes. All you have to do is watch the news and I am sure you will be FEELNG GROOVY in no time. Because when you see what is going on in the world—if you can get past the obnoxious constant coverage of ‘The’ Donald Trump’s Presidency— then the occasional 60 degree day and the traffic from hell, will make you remember how lucky you are to be living in La La Land.

Remember that life sometimes is as simple and fun as a game show, and when you are down, just Phone-A-Friend! Get on the phone, and actually SPEAK to someone you like or love, because human contact keeps us grounded in life. We are all ‘Lost in TEXTation’ and having a friend give you an ‘encouragement hug’ through the airwaves really will keep you FEELING GROOVY!

And lastly…. Make the words you speak happy ones, life really is FABULOUSA; stop and talk to a neighbor’s puppy and rub its belly, connect with life in all its forms; save a bug, even a spider deserves a chance to spin another web; enjoy a nice chilled glass of Chardonnay or a yummy Cabernet and celebrate the better things in life; and always remember… Happiness comes from within, so make your own FEELING GROOVY happiness count and it will create positive vibes in the Universe.

Beverly Hills Bubble

Beverly Hills Bubble

Is there such a thing as the Beverly Hills Bubble?

When I arrived back in Los Angeles after the Christmas holidays—after spending an extended stay in the Calgary airport on my return due to ‘holiday flight interruptions’—you would think the first thing I would have noticed when I finally landed at LAX were the warm winter winds and the palm trees gently swaying amid a sunshiny azure blue sky: a quintessential California winter day.

Well, you would be wrong.

You see, when I departed LAX the first leg of my WestJet ‘two-day-trek’ to the great white north was delayed by several hours. Normally, I would be irritated and stressed about the delay. But as I took a good look around, I noticed that Terminal 2 at LAX had been completely renovated since my trip the year prior. Last year, there was one kiosk in the whole terminal where you could only buy, basically… prison food. So, when I realized that several new boutiques, restaurants and bars were now at my disposal, I landed at Barney’s Beanery and indulged in some tacos and wine, chatting with other stranded passengers until my WestJet flight actually departed for Calgary. I felt grateful that the spiffy newly-renovated terminal had been a comfy distraction from my delayed flight.

Then, after spending 12 days surrounded by the beauty of what is a Manitoba winter, with the crisp cold air and the clean white snow making the merriment of the season come alive before your eyes— a picturesque Christmas postcard of beauty—I was once again sidelined in an airport on my return, the new International Terminal in Calgary to be precise.

Not only is the Calgary International terminal large, boasting of many restaurants, bars and tiny little shops…but it’s also clean. Clean as a whistle. Pristine! You could actually eat off of the floor; seriously! So when I finally landed back at LAX, back in Terminal 2 – the newly renovated terminal, one which seemed like a revamped miracle only two weeks prior—all I noticed when I disembarked the plane was filth: garbage strewn about, mobs of people everywhere, more garbage, and miserable unhappy people breathing in an air that would not be described as odorless. Compared to the clean airports of Canada, Terminal 2 looked like a dump; an old dump, one that needed a renovation. It likely would have not struck me as odd, had I not been marveling at its beauty and improvements only two weeks prior.

As I got in my Uber to head to my home, I started to really take in the scenery around me: the massive freeways, the run down stores, the dilapidated buildings, the un-manicured lawns, the worn out street signs, not to fail to mention the homeless people hanging out in the middle of the busy streets looking for handouts or trying to sell you oranges. Compared to the ‘Sunny Manitoba’ snow-kissed countryside, I felt like I was heading into a poverty stricken war zone.

As we continued our drive down the increasingly noticeably dilapidated La Cienega Boulevard, with the majority of business having bars on their windows, I remember saying to my Uber driver, ‘God, LA is an ugly city. It’s a dirty, ugly city.’ Pondering those thoughts, I felt the aching of my heart, sad having left my mom standing in tears at the little Brandon airport as she hugged me good-bye at four a.m. earlier that morning. I began to wonder what the hell I was doing living so far from my family, in this ‘dirty-cesspool-of-a city’, one I proudly defended for years as ‘my city’.

Then, just as the Uber car crossed over Olympic and Wilshire, suddenly the topography changed as dramatically as if a fairy had used her magic wand to cast a beauty spell on everything that fell within its magical range: The grass was cut, the houses were pretty, the sidewalks were clean, the cars were nice, the bars were gone from the restaurant windows. Ahh… I was home! I was back in Beverly Hills! HOME AT LAST!

Then later, after some soul searching and once the homesick aching finally dissipated, I realized that living, working, and playing in my comfy 3 mile radius had made me rather oblivious to life outside of my Beverly Hills Bubble. I basically existed in a beautiful Beverly Hills bubble of life, kind of like living in Stephen King’s Under the Dome, except this was a dome that no one wanted to escape.

I guess Los Angeles really is a city of neighborhoods, and each one has its own type of beauty and qualities which draw people to live there: Santa Monica – beach lovers, West Hollywood – lifestyle acceptance; Los Feliz- artsy fartsy folks (and the scary Scientology center); Venice – hippy dippy granola peeps … well, you get the picture. When I moved to LA I had one friend, and she lived in Beverly Hills, in the heart of the Beverly Hills Bubble. And, as I lived with her for a while, I began to feel comfortable in my new neighborhood to the point that I have never left it. So… here I am and here I be, so Beverly Hills Bubble – you are stuck with me.

Being stuck in the Beverly Hills Bubble isn’t a bad thing—it’s definitely more of an expensive thing— but the people who live in the Beverly Hills Bubble, eventually acclimate to this so-called life. So how do you know when you have become acclimated to life inside the Beverly Hills Bubble?

You know you are part of the Beverly Hills Bubble when…

Going to an event or dinner West of the 405 or East of La Brea feels so far, it makes you wonder if you should pack an overnight bag.

When you see a 65-year old man with a 20 something girl, you automatically assume they are dating.

Buying a $1600 Missoni dress on a 75% off sale doesn’t mean you spent 400 dollars, it means you saved $1200! (My personal favorite of this list!)

A studio apartment without a parking stall at $2400 a month seems like a deal, after all you are in walking distance to Fred’s at Barneys.

Children need to take tests to get into pre-school, and as a parent you stress that your child will act like a normal three year old and fuck it up.

Beverly Hills has 2 hour free parking garages, so you make sure you don’t go over two hours free when you are buying your $300 dollar pair of blue jeans. Because having to pay a dollar for parking, would really piss you off.

Dating a Killer

Date with a KILLER!!

Have you ever seen any of the Lifetime movies where the girl isn’t aware that the man that she is dating is, in actuality, a killer who is eventually going to try to kill her? He is always some handsome ‘catch of a man’ who is so seemingly perfect –too perfect—until his psycho killer personality rears its scary head? I have seen so many of those movies that you would think that by this stage in my life, I would be outwardly skeptical of any ‘random stranger’ that I happened to meet.

So, when…

Two years ago, I was out with one of my girlfriends, catching up and indulging in the relatively cheap happy hour menu at Café Roma in Beverly Hills. We were sitting on two bar stools, giggling ourselves silly – the $6 glasses of wine undoubtedly contributing to the giddiness—when all of a sudden, a handsome man pushed his way in-between us to order a cocktail. When he spotted my friend, you could tell that he was very attracted to her and he immediately began to engage her in flirtatious banter.

The man was visiting from Texas, and if his accent wasn’t a giveaway to his tourist identity, the Crocs he wore on his feet were an obvious sign that this guy wasn’t from the hood of Beverly. He said his best friend was on his way to meet him, and he asked if we would like to join them for dinner. Okay, so I had just eaten two appetizers and was on my second glass of wine, and I wasn’t interested in hanging out with this tourist and his friend for another few hours, but my girlfriend seemed to really like this Texas boy named… Jess. So, even before meeting Jess’s friend, I conceded to hang out with the Texan tourists to make my girlfriend happy.

Jess ended up being a gentleman, and when our bill came, he insisted upon paying for the entire happy hour bill. I was starting to think that maybe there really was something to southern charm, holding out hope that my last-minute dinner companion would be just as cute and charming as my girlfriend’s Texas boy. I was starting to daydream, hoping that my Texas guy was going to be a southern prince, and was sipping on my cheap wine, when Jess taped my shoulder and said “Janell, meet Tommy.”

I swiveled around on my bar stool, with my happy alcohol-induced buzz, and had my first look at Tommy: 50ish, 6 foot 5, skinny – yet with a protruding belly of some sort—wearing khaki shorts, a Hawaiian button-down shirt, and flip flops. He had a full head of dark brown hair, and I was trying to determine if he had an attractive face, but all I could see was his big, bushy, MASSIVE handlebar moustache— one that was so pronounced that it practically swallowed up his face.

All I could think was ‘God, I am going to be stuck with ‘Croc-boy’ and ‘Moustache-Man’ for the next several hours, and I prayed that I didn’t run into anyone I knew for the rest of the night. Tommy and Jess were staying at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, and the concierge had told him that the Soho House was the hottest place to go in LA. My girlfriend piped up and said, “Oh Janell knows lots of people who go there, maybe she can get us in?” as she looked at me. I tried to tell them that it was a private club, and as I was not a member, I had no way to get them in. Besides that, even if I could… would I take them and be seen with them there? NOT!

Tommy wanted to go, and said he could throw a few hundred at the door and knew we could get in. He informed us he was wealthy and could buy his way into anywhere in the world by throwing cash at the door. At this point, I was really starting to get irritated with Tommy, as I patiently tried to explain to him that LA is a city where money doesn’t always talk. The two of us were bickering back and forth. I was starting to hate his obnoxious ‘money can buy all attitude’ and I told my girlfriend that I was tired and really wanted to go home. Tommy looked relieved, as neither of us wanted to spend two more hours in each other’s company. But Jess insisted I stay, and I conceded to dinner down the street at Mastros, where I have to add that Tommy’s money-throwing talents did manage to get us a table in the best section of the already-packed restaurant.

Okay, so how bad could dinner at Mastros really be? As such, I settled in and decided to order literally ‘everything I wanted’ as I did not care if Tommy liked me or not. I was stuck in this situation, so I decided to make the best of it and pig the fuck out. As such, I suggested the seafood tower as an appetizer for all of us, and then ordered a petit filet and lobster garlic mashed potatoes, and what the hell, wouldn’t a bottle of Opus One go swimmingly with my dining choices? (And remember, I had already eaten two appetizers, let’s just say this prairie Canadian girl can really put it back when she wants to).

As Jess and my girlfriend chatted away, I was forced to make conversation with Tommy. As it turned out—handlebar moustache aside—Tommy was a really interesting man. He owned an oil company in Texas, had a ski chalet in Vail, had been divorced twice, had three kids, but most importantly… he had a dog, and in my books, dog people are good people. By the time dinner ended, Girlfriend and Jess took off and left the two of us to chat, and we ended up sitting and talking for several hours about life.

Tommy said that he was bored with his life, that he had been everywhere, travelled the world, and that there was no excitement left for him. I told him maybe he should try giving instead of taking, and spend his time helping others with his wads of cash; that helping others to make the world a better place just might make him see his world in a lovelier light. I think the Texas oilman was not used to big mouthed, opinionated girls like me, and for some reason my sassy suggestions seemed to resonate with him.

Finally it was midnight, and even though he did not turn into a Prince, he was a gentleman and ordered a car to make sure I got home safely. And I realized that I had met a new friend, and was glad that I had given him and his handlebar moustache a chance.

Well, we aren’t done yet, what about the Killer bit… hmm, lets continue…

So Tommy kept emailing me over the next few months, sharing photos of his life: pictures of his homes, his kids, his dog – basically we became email friends. Then one day out of the blue he invited me to celebrate his birthday in Vegas. He was hosting a big party for all of his friends. He said he would fly me in, and put me up at the Cosmopolitan as he would like to get to know me better.

Hmm, I wasn’t sure what the implications were in the ‘get to know me’ better bit, however he did emphasize that I would have my own room, and he thought I would enjoy meeting and hanging out with his friends. Okay, so VEGAS – it’s only an hour away by plane, and worst case, if he was a wacko I could always run to the airport and jump on a flight as flights leave to LAX practically every hour. Plus let’s face it, how bad could two nights in Vegas be with a Texas Oil GAZILLIONAIRE???

Well let’s just say that throwing money at people in Vegas – works, EVERYTIME. Tommy had his birthday scheduled out for the two days, and his friends were cool right down to their handlebar moustaches. I felt like I was in a time warp, hanging out with a bunch of Tom Selleck wannabe’s from Magnum P.I. However, money does make for easy fun, and over the two days we went to the best restaurants, saw shows, a concert, laid out in the sun and drank – a lot. I started to notice that Tommy was never without a drink in his hands, even the first morning at breakfast he had a double vodka and tomato juice. I started to count his drinks, and he had at least 2 to 3 an hour – and at that, was completely sober. The second night after the tasting menu at Guy Savoy, we gambled. By this time in my trip it was obvious to everyone—including me—that Tommy liked me. We started to gamble and he kept giving me money to gamble with, and let’s just say that when you aren’t gambling with your own money, it is a lot of fun, and you have nothing to lose. By the end of the night I had about $700 in my pocket and had consumed a few glasses of champagne, and Tommy’s handlebar moustache was actually starting looking pretty damn sexy to me.

With that revelation, I realized that I must be drunk, and as I could barely keep my eyes open, I gave him a kiss on the cheek and went to my room and basically, passed out. At five am, I almost had a heart attack when I was awoken by someone trying to break into my room. I feared that a rapist, stalker, or killer was loose in the Cosmopolitan hotel and I was about to be the highlight of the Vegas morning news.

The killer ended up being a drunken Tommy who slur-rely explained that ‘he who pays for the room, gets a key to the room’, and he jumped into bed with me and cuddled me and passed out. I laid there rather motionless until he got up to pee (like a racehorse I will add, for like at least 4 minutes straight I will add) and came back and sat beside me, and apologized for his drunken brazen actions.

We actually ended up talking the rest of the night, and I told him that he had better be a gentleman as, after all, we weren’t even on an official date. He said I was a weird chick in a good way, and wondered if I would let him get to know me further.

By the time I flew home, I was actually beginning to wonder if I could go from Beverly Hills to Southfork and be happy. Could I change my name to Janellabelle? Tommy was sweet, funny, and generous, and I was actually even quite fond of his handlebar moustache. Moving to Texas aside, it was his constant and continual drinking that was troublesome to me.

Regardless, I was back in La La Land and ready to resume my life and see what transpired between me and my Texan guy.

Okay Janell, so that was the killer part of the story?? You made us read through long-assed story to find out that the killer in him was only his killer intrusion?

Hang on, my killer story isn’t done yet….

So for the next few weeks, Tommy called me daily. In one very long call, he asked if he told me something about himself, something he regretted having happened, if I could get beyond his past regrettable transgressions. And I, jokingly said, well as long as you weren’t a wife beater, a criminal or a killer, I could likely get past anything … as I giggled at his oddly phrased question.

The next day I didn’t hear from Tommy. In fact a few days went by where I didn’t receive an email, text or call. I was upset and going over every text and email with a fine-tooth comb, trying to figure out what I may have said or done wrong. As I was telling this tale to a male colleague at work, hoping for some testosterone-inspired advice, my colleague asked if I had ever googled him.

And of course, I hadn’t. So we both started to google his name, and my colleague said….”does he live in Dallas? Because there is a Tommy _____ from Dallas who ran over a boy, killing him while driving an ATV drunk as a skunk at a party, and he was so drunk that he dragged the poor kid’s body for a block before he realized that he had even hit someone. “

Ugh, Tommy was killer. He wasn’t a hitman killer, or a mobster killer, or a psycho killer, or a serial killer, or even a lady-killer – he was a drunk, who became so drunk that he became a reckless drunken killer.

There was a trial, he was arrested on second degree murder, and once I started to dig, I found out that his lawyer had come up with some ‘technical ATV malfunction’ bullshit of a defense, leaving an entire community enraged that this his rich-drunken-KILLER-ass had been vindicated by a jury of his peers.

Of course, I never heard from him again.

And the moral of this story is…

Handlebar Moustaches and Crocs can grow on you, so give people you normally wouldn’t find attractive a chance, because you never know lies beneath the surface.

You can date someone with ‘Killer Style’, or who is ‘Killer Fancy’, but never someone who is a ‘Killer Drunk’ because you never know who might get injured in their drunken state of intoxication.

I was sad to learn that not all ‘Dog People’ are good people, and that even some good people make bad choices sometimes.

Uber Americano in the Year 2017

Well, let’s just say that when you are genetically cursed with ‘night blindness’ (along with your mother and sister) and when your depth perception from dusk to dawn is virtually nil, driving at night becomes a terrifying ordeal for, not only yourself, but for anyone who has the misfortune of being a passenger in your vehicle. Before the advent of Uber, my friends in Los Angeles, after one or two ‘Janell chauffeured nights out’, not only refused to drive with me, offered to pick me up for my own protection.

So now with Uber, I am free to flee at a relatively affordable rate—assuming there are no surges—and go anywhere I want within a reasonable proximity of my comfy five mile ‘I feel safe’ radius. Uber has literally ‘liberated’ me, making evening escapades enjoyable and stress free. Seriously, in Los Angeles, the cost of valet parking (not including the potential valet damage to your vehicle), and the fact that you don’t have to worry about drinking and driving, makes Uber a sensible choice for anyone who loves their car dent free and their criminal record spotless.

There is another reason why I love Uber…. not only are the drivers willing to let you be a backseat driver (yep, not one of my finer qualities), but you often meet the most interesting drivers, and if you are open minded and curious about the human race, you can engage in enjoyable conversations from your pick up to drop off point.

As we head into the start of 2017, many of us fearful of the perceived rocky road that looms ahead, in a country divided by an election—with half the nation worried about the incumbent President being fit to run this great nation, and the other half licking their chops like they won the lottery—is making this transition into 2017 ‘fucking scary’. On top of that, we have the added worries of Syria, Isis, Putin, Al-Qaeda (they are still out there, hiding in the hills, don’t forget), not to overlook the terrorists among us, global warming and a projected recession. Shit.

So, for my first post of 2017, from my little WheatFieldsToWonderland blog site, I want to regale you with a story that was told to me, from one of my Uber drivers, just prior to the Christmas holidays, and will hopefully inspire you to remember what is important in life, and why we must all work together to keep this nation, and our world, filled with love and not hatred.

The story of Oban

December 14th, I was headed to a holiday party in Los Feliz. As Los Feliz is eight miles from my house, I decided to do ‘Uber Pool’ and save some money. When Oban pulled up in his Audi A4, I thought perhaps I had hit the wrong button on my Uber app, so before I stepped into his car, I confirmed with him that he was indeed a ‘pool’ driver and not an Uber ‘select’ or something that was going to cost me a shit load of money. In a heavy and somewhat hard to understand accent, Oban confirmed that he was indeed ‘pool’, and I got in his Audi, happy that I was in a nice car, but concerned that his heavy accent might indicate that that he was an ‘LA newbie’ and fresh off the boat from some foreign land, and as such, not familiar enough with the city. So, in anticipation, I decided to remain on high alert and watch where the hell he was taking me.

As Oban used Google Maps to navigate through traffic, reassuring me that he would get me to the ‘not so Janell familiar neighborhood’ of Los Feliz in 30 minutes, I decided that the ‘staying alert’ part would be easier if we chatted.

Oban told me he was from the country of Nigeria, on the continent of Africa (a FYI for the geographically challenged of you out there). We talked for several minutes about Africa, the poverty, the politics, and the way of life in a distant continent. Oban went on to tell me that, even though he came from a poor country, his family was a family of farmers and, as such, they owned land and had agricultural fields on their land. In his country, the landowners and farmers were counted amongst the wealthy. Oban told me that he had been university educated and that his family’s name carried a large impact in Nigeria. He informed me that he loved his country, and had a great life compared to most of his countrymen.

At this point in my trip, I had no difficulty understanding his accent, and even though he pronounced his words somewhat differently, his English was actually impeccable. I wondered why, if he came from a country that he loved, one where he lived in wealth, how it was that he ended up in Los Angeles and driving Uber (although, now the Audi totally made sense—wealthy dad!).

Oban said two years ago, his mother had obtained a visa to come to the United States. It was her dream to come and live here and experience ‘our way’, the American Way, of life. Over the course of the year she lived here, his mother fell in love with the United States. She could not believe that Americans tried to help abandoned dogs and cats find homes, and that they were not left to run on the streets. She was amazed that we had shelters for homeless people, and that there were places for the poor to go to get for medical help. Oban told me that, in his country, if you could not afford to pay the doctor, he would not treat you. He said people just literally died in the streets because they could not afford medical care. In comparison to where his mother had lived her whole life, these were some of the things that shaped her impression of why America was a great nation.

Sadly, he went on to tell me that after she had lived here for only a year, she found out she had ovarian cancer, and was given a month to live. She was so distraught at the news that she died within the week. Her four children, who were on their way to the United States to be with her for her final days, never made it in time to say good-bye to their mother.

Oban told me that it was his mother’s final wish to be buried on American soil, as she deemed America to be a great country, and his mother believed that if she was buried here, that she would come back in her next life and be born in America.

Her children granted her wish, and Oban told me that they all applied for visas and all four of her children are living here, as they want to be with their mother. He told me that he goes to her gravesite every week, and brings her flowers and cries at missing her. He said that his father and uncle stayed in Nigeria to run the business, and that he was in medical school and driving Uber on the side, and planning to make a life here—along with his siblings—so that they can all be together in this life to visit their mom, and be reborn all together in the next life as, per Oban, “children should always be with their mothers”.

At this point in my Uber ride, I was teary-eyed at hearing Oban’s heartfelt and heart breaking story. As we pulled up to the house in Los Feliz where I was going in to ‘party’, I tried to wipe the black mascara tear stained lines from my face, and dabbed my eyes praying I didn’t look like a hot mess getting out of his car. I thanked him for having shared such an intimate part of his life with me; in such a short time I had learned so much about another human being, about another way of life, and was reminded of the importance of love and family. My Uber ride with Oban ended up being the best part of my night.

Thankfully, living in Los Angeles, there are always parties to go to, and friends to hang out with, and champagne to sip – but being reminded to be grateful for all that we have, of the opportunities and choices that we are given daily, and not forgetting to embrace the love that is around us—is Oban’s gift that I am passing along to you.

So the moral of this Uber story as we head into an uncertain 2017 is….

Never discount someone for what they are doing in life; everyone has a story, sometimes five minutes of someone else’s life can change yours forever.

Working together as a whole is better than fighting, as that only keeps us apart.

Always count your blessings—and the simple things in life—because what we seemingly take for granted often becomes the biggest gifts we have.

And so, heading into 2017, hopefully we can all remember to love, to be grateful, and to work together to make this country and our world a fucking awesome place. And if all of that fails, hold on to your damn hats lol!

PODCAST for those trapped in their car half the day! If you like this story please share, like on facebook, or post a comment! Kisses!

Red Flag Warning

In sunny California when we hear the words Red Flag Warning, we know that the possibility of a brush fire is amplified due to Mother Nature’s lack of keeping her shit together. You know what I mean: first she forgot to send us rain – even during the dreaded El Nino – so we are in a drought; then she decided to send us excessive heat – which made the droughty spots even more brittle; and just when you thought she couldn’t add any more fuel to the fire, she decided to throw in some gale force winds making for perfect combustible burning weather.

With all of that, even if Mother Nature doesn’t manage to stir up her own pot of shit, she can often also rely on some dumb Los Angeles idiot to wreak havoc and do her dirty work for her. I am referring to the dumb ass idiot who goes into the forest on a hot, dry, and windy day – likely smoking some of his ‘medical grade’ marijuana – and of course he never heard the news about Red Flag Warning – because he is brain dead from smoking too much pot; so he mindlessly tosses the remainder of his joint as he strolls through the woods, and poof! Fire!

You see, life would be much easier if we all heeded the Red Flag Warning and took as many precautions as we could. I think life also often shows us plenty of red flags, and sometimes we are so preoccupied with everything that we don’t see them – or if we do, we choose to ignore them. Think back to your past boyfriends, or girlfriends, or lovers, or friends, or bosses, and when you search your mind you will see that the universe was kind enough to show you, sometimes multiple times, big massive blimp sized red flags; and you just chose to ignore them, even as they practically flailed in your face. How different would your life path have been if you had seen the red flag warning and made a different choice?

Looking back at my dating life, the universe sent me obvious red flag warnings for each of my relationships that ended badly. Usually, right in the beginning even before I got in too deep, the tell-tale signs were there warning me to flee. Off the top of my head, I can think of three examples where an incident occurred that at the time bothered me to my core, and had I looked and listened, I maybe would have saved myself some pain, or not wasted part of my precious life with the wrong dude.

First Pathetic Example of a Missed Red Flag Warning:

One night, one of my previous boyfriend’s and I were leaving a bar. We were the last to leave, and as we started to make our way out of the bar, my boyfriend noticed that a beautiful tan suede jacket was left hanging on a chair – most likely forgotten by some drunken soul – who probably would have loved to have recouped his jacket the following day once sobriety hit him. My boyfriend saw the jacket, tried it on, and when it was a perfect fit, he started to walk out of the bar wearing it. I pulled on his arm and asked what the hell he was doing, and suggested that he give it to the body guard for their lost and found, as I was certain that the jacket’s owner would want it back. And he turned to me and said “Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers” and without hesitation left the bar. At the time it bothered me at my core. I knew I could never do that, but I was so…ugh…in LOVE… (puke) that I let it go; but truthfully I never forgot it. It was a memory that haunted me the entire time I dated him. The universe showed me a red flag warning, it showed me that he had a flawed character, and I saw it, I just didn’t want to accept it. (hashtag – #TheLoserIsMe)

Second Pathetic Example of a Missed Red Flag Warning:

Then there was the suave and handsome Investment Banker. As I knew nothing about the stock market, and what he really did for a living, and being that I am an inquisitive soul, I asked him a multitude questions about his work. My only reference to correlate to the investment banking world was the movie ‘Wall Street’, so I asked him to explain insider trading to me. One evening, a month or two into dating, he came over to my house on the late side, extremely upset and troubled – and definitely a little tipsy – and as he sat on my sofa, with his arms crossed and his face red from holding in his anger – he asked me, outright, if (wait…are you sitting down, you need to sit down before you continue reading) … if I was a spy for the FBI?

Once my expression off shock wore of my face, I started to laugh hysterically, and I will never forget what I said… “Seriously, ME, a spy for the FBI, ME with my big mouth, MISS friendly pants, MISS I talk to random strangers, me, MEEEE a spy for the FBI?” And of course he was mad, as he continued to disclose his litany of accusations that he had surmised, all of which led him to unearthing my true identity.

Was my inquisitive questioning about insider trading merely a ploy to find out information in an attempt to bring him down?

Plus, what really pushed him over the edge, was that a man who sat next to him on a recent flight back from New York had also been asking prying questions, and today he was certain that the same man was following him when he was in line at the bank; and he was certain that we were both FBI agents, working together and in cahoots!

Okay, so my jaw was on the floor, but I also could not stop laughing and could not take him seriously. I eventually convinced him that he wasn’t unknowingly starring in a remake of ‘The Spy Who Loved Me’; and when he was finally reassured – after I pulled out my Canadian passport and birth certificate as proof – he was relieved, as … he confessed that he was falling in love with me.

I did think this whole evening was beyond whacked, and it seemed insanely ridiculous to me. But, I reasoned that perhaps, in some small way, I may have made him suspicious; so I tried to convince myself that his ‘crazy talk’ came out of the mind of a tipsy and insecure individual, and filed it away into the ‘weird shit file’ in my head. Plus, as he had ended the night with his confession of love for me, I felt like I needed to give him a second chance.

Okay, what I should have asked myself, after his drunk ass went home was, WHY WOULD HE CARE IF YOU WERE A SPY FOR THE FBI, IF HE WASN’T DOING ANYTHING WRONG?? Hmm… The universe had sent me a massive red flag, and for whatever reason at the time, did not see it for what it was.

And, of course, he ended up being an jerk, and let’s say, for a variety of reasons, he no longer is allowed anywhere near the stock market! (hashtag – #IKnowHowToPick’em!)

Third Pathetic Example of a missed Red Flag Warning:

Of course I can’t forget the Jewish boyfriend who told me in the beginning of our relationship that his parents wanted him to marry a Jewish Girl! Red Flag Warning up front! And, as we dated over the year, he would come home from fishing with his dad and say things like, “My dad thinks you’re really nice but you’re not Jewish.” More red flag warning words! Yet, for some stupid reason this SHIKSA thought that reason and logic would somehow prevail in the love department! NOT! I got kicked to the curb, and even though he warned me himself, I just looked at him with dumb goo-goo eyes and thought love could conquer all. (hashtag #MyBad)

So you see, I had warning signs, the Universe’s barometer was on high alert and pointed precisely in my direction, trying to tell me each time to get the fuck out. Yet, I didn’t see, or didn’t want to see, the gigantic red flag warnings that were figuratively smacking my face. But, if I am truthful with myself, I always knew, my gut knew, my instincts knew – but my hormones and my heart kicked in and each time I chose to ignore the red flag warning.

I guess sometimes in life we have to go through these challenges, and learn from our mistakes. And as long as we can learn from our errors and start to be more cognoscente when the universe is trying to help us avoid pain and suffering, then at least that is something. After all, fucking up is part of growing up, and learning how to see people for who they really are, is an acquired skill that often only comes after experiencing pain.

So….. The Moral of this Red Flag Warning Story is:

Look and listen, really listen – the truth is there, if you choose to see and hear it.

Don’t beat yourself up too badly when you miss the red flag warnings, but at least try not to repeat the same ones over and over again. Otherwise, the universe is going to give up on you and it won’t be so generous with its red flag warnings, as why should it waste its effort on someone who never seems to get it?

And on a side note: If you smoke pot, don’t do it in forests, okay? We just can’t trust your pothead to think straight when you are just too damn happy in your own cloudy world.

You Complete Me

You Complete Me

YOU COMPLETE ME – words romantically uttered 20 years ago in the film ‘Jerry Maguire’ have become a dreamy, starry-eyed declaration of love – worldwide – for the past two decades. Do you remember the end of the movie when Tom Cruise’s character, Jerry Maguire, tries to win back the heart of Dorothy Boyd, beautifully portrayed by Renee Zellweger? When he finally realized that she really was the woman for him – after having run away leaving her and her young son to fend for themselves – he came back and professed his love for her, ending his declaration of love by saying… YOU COMPLETE ME.

I remember watching the film, and falling in love at that moment with Tom Cruise, adoring the romantic notion of someone actually ‘completing’ me; kind of like finally finding that piece of the puzzle that is missing, making a picture-perfect image come to life. Twenty years ago, when this movie came out, I was still living in Canada, and my young vulnerable mind romanticized this YOU COMPLETE ME notion, and I started to consciously look for men who I thought completed me. And, as hard as I tried, searching for my perfect partner who made me a better me, never seemed to work. I eventually pushed the YOU COMPLETE ME notion out of my mind, and went about my dating life, letting it unfold organically, and surrendering my quest for a man whom I thought that someday I could say to – in our marriage vows – YOU COMPLETE ME.

A few weeks ago, I was out for dinner with a few of my friends, and one of my Gusband’s was dating a new guy – one, who in comparison to his other boyfriends I have had the unfortunate pleasure of having to endure, actually seemed like a great guy: smart, handsome, career-oriented, and seemingly totally smitten with Gusband. When Gusband’s new boy got up to use the bathroom, I leaned in and told him how much I really liked his new man. Gusband looked at me and said, “You know he’s cute and all, but well, something is missing, I just don’t feel like… he completes me.”

As I sat there, hearing the words, memories of my own life came rolling back faster than a rapid in a river, to a time when I, too, was searching for the YOU COMPLETE ME guy. After a few moments of reflection, I looked at him and said “You know Gusband, as I have been writing my blog the past year and a half, I have had to really be honest with myself, and all this writing has brought me to a stronger place in my life.” “Having to blog and write about dating and life issues and having to honestly share my shit, has forced me to take a really hard look at myself.” But, before I could continue with my preachy pontificating my Gusband said, as he rolled his eyes, “Yeah, Janell, I know you think that I don’t give guys enough of a chance, because I really am not interested in settling down, blah blah blah”. And with that statement, he took a large sip of his wine, and smiled a wry ‘victory’ smile, thinking he had shut down my ‘judgmental-lecture-laden’ mouth.

“No, that’s not it”, I strongly protested, “You can make all the excuses you want to stay single; I don’t give a crap one way or another if you are married or a swinging bachelor until you’re ninety.” “What bothers me is when you said that you thought your new boyfriend didn’t complete you.” My Gusband looked at me, somewhat perplexed, as well, aren’t we all searching, really, for our perfect match? So naturally, I continued…..

“You know Gusband, if you are looking for someone to complete you, than that means that you aren’t complete on your own.” “How can you expect someone to come into your life, and complete you?” “You need to be complete, you need to complete you, or you will never bring the right energy to you.” “You can’t expect some guy to come into your life and magically be the missing piece of the puzzle to make you a better you.” And he looked at me, and said, “You know, you are right, I never thought of it that way”.

Well, let’s just say, that Gusband is now giving this guy a chance, and is sorting out his own shit in his head about who he is and what he wants out of his life. Time will tell if these two boys can make this relationship work, but having one of them come into the relationship with the notion that he needed someone who he could say YOU COMPLETE ME to, makes me think that perhaps that Gusband has some serious soul searching to do before he finds the right guy for him.

And the moral of this YOU COMPELTE ME story is….

You have to love you, where you are in your life, what you are doing, and be happy with you. You will only attract the right person when you are the best you YOU can be; being happy and powerful in who you are – not only is an aphrodisiac – it allows the energy of the universe to point partners towards your direction that are also complete with themselves, and after all, isn’t finding someone who complements you much better than saying …. YOU COMPLETE ME?

So, instead of YOU COMPLETE ME, how about making sure that YOU COMPLETE YOU, because once you are the best version of you YOU can be, then your happy little self won’t even need someone, and if and when the right partner does come in, it will be the icing on the cake to life.

And as side thought, I so love it when someone says…You are right! LOL

Peace out!

Audio – link Podcast for You COMPLETE Me below and also at the beginning of the story…for those of you trapped in your car, or cooking in your kitchen, or having sex…Okay scratch the last one! LOL

Beverly Hills Internist

Beverly Hills INTERNIST list of ‘Ist’s’

Living in Los Angeles, Hollywood and Beverly Hills means that when it comes to ‘ist’s, your lists of ist’s grows exponentially the longer you live here. In fact, it is shocking how many ‘ist’s’ the average person has in their rolodex. In a fast paced society, where the pressure to succeed is so fiercely interwoven into the framework of your existence, many people start out with only one ‘ist’ and end up a rolodex of ist’s.

What is an ‘ist’ and how do you acquire them? Check out a typical LA story of ‘ist’s’….. (NOTE: The story described below, is based on no one in particular, fabricated, but based on my observations of life and how easy it is to fall into something)

So… the pressure of your job, your mortgage, your car payment and your credit card debt – on top of your tumultuous personal relationship and iPhone full of flakey friends – has you stressed to the point that you start to develop headaches that become debilitating headaches. The headaches become so frequent that you start to worry that the above aforementioned are not the cause of your severe headaches. You decide that maybe you had better go see someone about it, so what do you do?

You go to see your INTERNIST…

Your INTERNIST wants to rule out the remote possibility that you have a brain tumor or aneurism so your INTERNIST sends you to see a NEUROLOGIST. The NEUROLOGIST send you for a MRI, and a few days later the RADIOLOGIST sends a report to your NEUROLOGIST who calls you with the good news that your brain is not going to explode into wee bits. However, in the three days it took for the RADIOLOGIST to read the results and let your NEUROLOGIST know that you weren’t headed to heaven, the stress of worrying about a possible brain tumor or aneurism explosion made your debilitating headaches become migraines so severe that no over the counter medication – even when doubled the recommended dose – can ease the pain.

So your NEUROLOGIST prescribes you with 600 milligram Ibuprofen; which literally takes away the headache pain, and shit – when you have a glass or two of wine with the Ibuprofen, you feel fucking amazing. So for a few months your headaches subside and you start to relax, and the Molotov cocktail you are now consuming seems to alleviate all sorts of problems. But then…..You start to have difficulty swallowing and you have serious acid reflux. So what do you do?

You go back to your INTERNIST ….

Your INTERNIST wonders if maybe the stress mixed with the prescription medication mixed with the wine might be causing you to have gastric issues, so your INTERNIST sends you to see a GASTROENTEROLOGIST. The GASTROENTEROLOGIST decides you need to have a scope done to see what the hell is going on, and then next thing you know you being strapped to a gurney and an ANESTESIOLOGIST – who looks like he just came home from the club and came straight into the ER – is about to inject you with Propofol. You start to worry because Propofol killed Michael Jackson – and as you make the ANESTESIOLOGIST promise to not kill you, you drift into what is referred to as a ‘mild sedation’. Mild Sedation my ass, you are out fucking cold; which is a good thing as who wants to remember the GASTROENTEROLOGIST cramming a big tube down your throat and cutting biopsy chunks out of your stomach?

Ten days later, the PATHOLOGIST sends your results to the GASTROENTEROLOGIST, and you go back into the GASTROENTEROLOGIST’s office for the results. He tells you that you have inflammation so severe that not even over the counter medication like Prilosec will work, and prescribes you with a prescription for Protonix. The GASTROENTEROLOGIST also send the report to your INTERNIST, who now thinks that maybe you need to talk to someone about your stress levels – as it seems to be the root of the problem – so your INTERNIST refers you to a THERAPIST.

Your THERAPIST, after a few sessions, decides that you have high anxiety – from all of the ‘stressors’ in your life – and instead of telling you to workout, sleep, meditate and relax, decides that you need to be evaluated by a PSYCHIATRIST because… you might need medication for your anxiety. The PSYCHIATRIST determines, in your 20 minute session, that Xanax will help your anxiety, and you leave with a prescription in hand.

It turns out the Xanax makes you fall asleep in a second, and you feel calm and life starts to feel good again. Even your THERAPIST comments on how much better you seem to be doing. The only problem is that you have to take more and more of the Xanax to sleep, and when you need two full bars of Xanax to fall asleep every night – and when the PSYCHIATRIST won’t increase your dosage any higher – you decide to add a glass of wine to the mix. And guess what? That works for a while.

Until one night, after you have been out for the evening and had a couple of glasses of wine, and then take your 2 bars of Xanax before you go to bed, you get up in the night to pee and are so loopy that you run into a wall and crack your front tooth.

Now, you find yourself with your DENTIST, who refers you to a PROSTHODONTIST who can hopefully save your tooth and apply a veneer. The PROSTHODONTIST, thank God, can fix the tooth, but thinks you need veneers on the front four teeth as your smile will be weird with only one veneer. And, OMG living in the bubble of Hollywood with one weird tooth will throw off your whole look, so you gut up and pay to have the other three teeth fixed to match the one cracked tooth. The good news is that your smile looks great; the bad news is that the porcelain veneers are about $1500 each, and now your credit card debt is through the roof and your stress levels elevate even more.

And guess what? Even with the Xanax, the Protonix, and the Ibuprofen your headaches come back. So, what do you do?

You go back to your INTERNIST.

Your INTERNIST now determines that the PSYCHIATRIST you saw is turning your into a drug addict, so recommends you see a PSYCHOPHARMACOLOGIST, who comes highly recommended. The PSYCHOPHARMACOLOGIST (which is just another bullshit name for PSYCHIATRIST) thinks that you either need to wean yourself off the Xanax and wine, or better yet, check yourself into rehab for a month. Gosh, the sound of a month off of your life sounds pretty great right about now, and you start contemplating the 30 day treatment program. Until you find out that your insurance doesn’t pay for rehab – and you don’t have $30,000 to spare – so you decide to wean yourself off of the Xanax with the assistance of your PSYCHOPHARMACOLOGIST.

As your PSYCHOPHARMACOLOGIST cuts down your Xanax bit by bit, your sleep is greatly interrupted and you start to get run down and look worn. A well-meaning friend thinks that perhaps you should get a facial, so recommends her FACIALIST to you. The FACIALIST cleans your pores and exfoliates your face – which now glows – but you still look like you have been beaten up by an ugly stick from exhaustion. The FACIALIST recommends that perhaps you talk to a DERMATOLOGIST about getting some fillers to freshen up your look.

One of your girlfriends swears by her DERMATOLOGIST, so you go and see him. The DERMATOLOGIST thinks that a little Botox on your forehead and around the eyes would be his first recommendation, and if you have enough cash maybe some Voluma in your cheeks to fill out your face, and some Juvederm in your lips will give you an all-around more youthful appearance. So out of vanity – and likely bad decision making skills from the lack of sleep – you haul out your credit card and go for it all.

An hour later, looking in the mirror, you want to cry because you look like a Pufferfish. But the DERMATOLOGIST swears that once the swelling and bruising dissipate that you will be looking youthful and refreshed. So for the next ten days you swallow Arnica to help the bruising heal quicker and hide from society as much as possible, because it takes that long for all of the bruising and swelling to go away.

Finally, you are healed, and your face does look fuller, and the Botox has smoothed out your lines, but the shit that he put in your lips makes your lips protrude and you look like are constantly pursing your lips. Fuck, the lips looks weird, the lips look really weird. So what do you do?

You go back to the DERMATOLOGIST.

The DERMATOLOGIST thinks you look great, but tells you not to worry because the $5000 you just spend will slowly dissolve into your body. You are freaked out when you realize that this shit is going to seep into your cells – but at least your lips will at some point return to normal – and hopefully by that time, you will have completely weaned yourself off the Xanax, and once again be able to sleep and look like your normal self.

So in the interim, you go to your HAIRSTYLIST to see if she can style your hair in a new way to detract from your fish lips. After a hour or so of playing with your hair, she honestly tells you that nothing she can do will detract from the lips – but at least you leave with an awesome blowout – and your HAIRSTYLIST suggests that you go to Mac on Robertson Boulevard to see if one of the Make-Up ARTISTS there can suggest ways to use make-up to minimize your lips for the next few months.

The Mac Make-Up ARTIST is quite helpful, and gives you a make-over, and $350 later you leave with a whole new bag of make-up. And Goddamnit – you look pretty darn good even with your swollen fish lips. So, for the first time in several months, you actually feel relatively good about yourself. So you walk across the street and stop at Intermix, where the in-house STYLIST picks out a new dress for you, and you head home feeling cute and broke.

Cute….at least your feel cute.

And within a few months, you are off the Xanax. You have slowed down on the wine, so you don’t need the Protonix anymore, and your lips – halleluiah – are back to normal. And for the first time in a long time your life seems pretty good.

The pressure of your job, your mortgage, your car payment haven’t seemed important after all you have been through, you are just grateful that you still have them. And even though your credit card debt is through the roof, you have tons of air miles now – at least that is some consolation. Plus you have been so consumed with all of your drama that you haven’t had time to worry about personal relationships or flakey friends at all. Life is getting better.

UNTIL…..

And the funny truth to this story is…

Your simple life can go from having one IST to having a list of IST’S in a short time, especially in a city like Los Angeles…

It’s amazing how easy it is to fall into something, and how fucking complicated it can be to find your way back out the other side….

Just be happy I didn’t tell you the tale of the Gynecologist lists of ‘ist’s’! (Maybe I will, that might actually be hysterical…or gross…or both!)

I AM… ADDICTED!

That moment is not an ‘a ha’ moment, rather that moment is an ‘oh fuck’ kind of a moment.

My ‘oh fuck’ moment happened recently, after what started out to be another seemingly innocuous day in my life. An innocuous day which led to my scary ‘oh fuck’ moment of reality when I realized that….I was ADDICTED.

It all started out on a routine trip to my dentist for my 6 month teeth cleaning. As my very patient dentist was cleaning my teeth, she remarked that my teeth were looking a little dull and would benefit from being whitened, plus I would have a better result if I did it right after the cleaning.

Living in LA LA land, I already had succumbed to the bleaching ritual, as my little Canadian teeth definitely looked more Hollywood acceptable when my smile is white. So, I insisted my dentist give me a mirror so I could inspect my pearlies up close and personal to make sure that a bleaching was needed, and noticed that my white teeth were definitely a little on the dull side.

I normally plan ahead for my bleaching session and do it first thing in the morning, because once your teeth are bleached, you have to abstain from eating or drinking anything with color for 24 hours. So an 8:00am bleaching allows me to wake up the next day and eat my normal foods and drink my coffee, and only suffer from one day of the ‘white-food and clear-liquid only’ diet. As it was now 11:30am, my bleaching wouldn’t be done until 12:30pm; that translated in my mind to two days or torture instead of one. But, vanity always rules, so I decided to just go for it.

At 12:30pm I left with healthy, clean and extremely white Hollywood-ready teeth. As I had to go back to work that afternoon, I was preoccupied with my job to the point that I really didn’t need to have anything to eat or drink. But on the way home, I had to stop and buy some provisions because everything in my fridge was full of color. So, I tore through Whole Foods searching for my little list of white foods that would keep me hopefully ‘sufficiently suffonsified’ for the next 18 hours and counting.

While at home, laying in front of my TV, and getting ready to chow down on my white foods, I decided to start with the large container of cottage cheese I had just bought. Then, when I was still starving, I boiled a dozen eggs and removed the shell and the yolk, making sure to rinse off the cooked egg white to make sure no traces of yellow were anywhere to be seen.

It was now 9:00pm. I only had 15 hours and 30 minutes left, but still feeling hungry, I decided to microwave a bag of the butter-free crap popcorn that I had also bought at Whole Foods. You can imagine how distended my stomach was by the time I fell asleep.

At six am I woke up, looked at the clock and immediately started to calculate the time I had left – six hours and 30 minutes before I could consume anything with color. I realized that I neglected to buy white breakfast foods, so I drank some water and put a couple of rice cakes in my belly, then sleepily drove myself to the gym. I jumped on my spin bike ready to rock it out to one of my favorite spin instructors tunes, and barely made it through the class. Oh, my feet hit the pedals, but I could hardly concentrate and felt irritated that the instructor didn’t motivate me more. I didn’t even sweat. I normally bike between 14 to 16 miles in an hour class and burn around 500 calories. On this day, I manage to burn 150 calories and only biked 8 miles. I left spin exhausted instead of exhilarated. I putzed around the gym, tried to do a few weights, but I had no energy. I was depressed. I hated everyone. I hated my life. Everything sucked and I felt like crap.

I finally went home, took a shower, and crawled back into bed and started to watch the clock. It was 10:00am, only 2 and 1/2 hours more to go. My body felt achy, and not achy because I had worked out too hard, just achy like I was getting the flu. Did someone in the dentist office have the flu virus yesterday?

Then my head started to hurt, and the achy body aches were followed by a mild headache. That was it. I was getting sick. I had the Flu. Damn it! Well at least at 12:30pm I could have some chicken soup, and maybe would nip it in the bud before I was put flat for days. As I lay in bed, I couldn’t even focus on the any of my Teevo’d shows. I was a mess. As the clock struck 12, I decided that maybe a cup of coffee might perk me up before I started my sick regiment. As such, I got the coffee pot ready, made it exceptionally strong, and when the clock said 12:20pm I hit the on-switch, as by 12:30 the coffee would be perked.

Ah the smell, it smelled great. And at 12:30pm exactly, I had my first sip of coffee. And within 15 minutes I was sitting up in bed laughing my ass off at one of my favorite shows, and over the next hour I had two more cups of coffee and guess what? I felt fucking amazing. My headache was gone, my body wasn’t aching, I felt cheery, I didn’t feel depressed or angry anymore, and it looked like I wasn’t going to need any chicken soup for my flu. My coffee had cured me.

And then it hit me. I didn’t have the flu, I was going through caffeine withdrawl. Holly fuck, I was addicted to coffee. I was addicted to having my 2 cups of coffee every morning. My body was addicted to the caffeine. OMG – my moment of realization, my ‘oh fuck’ moment had arrived: I had to acknowledge that I had an addiction, that I was an addict, and that I was addicted to caffeine.

It is a weird moment of reflection when you realize that something as seemingly harmless as drinking two cups of a coffee a day, every morning, as part of your ritual – a beverage that is consumed worldwide by people of all ages – is addictive enough to leave you as a stimulant-caffeine addicted individual. UGH!!!!!

So, I started to have a serious discussion with myself as to whether I should start to wean my body off my coffee bit by bit, because do I really want to live my life as an addicted individual? And after 30 seconds of thought and deep debate with myself, my conclusion was: No fucking way was I ever giving up my two cups of coffee, no fucking way! Addicted I had become, addicted I would stay.

And the moral of my addicted coffee story is:

Upon reflection, I was relieved that not having wine or champagne at night didn’t bother me a bit; As I go out so much it seems that I am always having some kind of bubbly of some sorts daily, so I was happy to realize that alcohol wasn’t an addictive device for me. Further reinforcing in my mind that wine and champagne were also here to stay, along with my coffee.

It is so easy for our bodies to get addicted to something, at least my addiction wasn’t going to harm me, just stain my teeth. As a bonus, I have my wonderful dentist to fix that little consequence.

And, I am left wondering if there are still shares to be had in Starbucks, because if two cups of coffee daily have me hitting the rails, it might actually be one of the safer stocks to buy in our crazy unpredictable world.

My patient, wonderful Dentist – Dr. Julie Valentine in Beverly Hills – is willing to extend a Limited Time “Special Offer” to other Coffee Lovers out there who wants Pearly White Teeth. In-Office Whitening Special of $199 ( a $300 Value ). To schedule an Appointment call (310) 551-2955 or visit her website @ http://www.beautifulsmilesbeverlyhills.com/

Chinese Fortune Cookie

Chinese Fortune Cookie….

I hope this Fortune Cookie has a fabulous fortune inside!

“Good news will be coming your way. It will be here any day!” I remember getting this fortune from my fortune cookie over a year ago, so either the good news came and went and it was so unspectacular that I never noticed it, or the Chinese definition of ‘any day’ does not translate so well into English.

Am I the only weirdo out there who really hopes that that the little piece of paper stuffed into the curled-up, cellophane-wrapped fortune cookie, tossed into my Chinese Food take-out bag, might actually have true meaning and come true? Of course, I only keep the ones I like, the others I forget about instantaneously….(it should be noted that I also read my horoscope – yep, one of those girls)….yet somehow these little inspirational ditties and hopeful proverbs are the perfect end to a take-out dinner, usually consumed at home with my dining partner I like to call – Cabernet.

Maybe instead of taking these Asian proverbs as beacons of hopefulness for ‘lottery’ like winning metaphors for life, perhaps we should look at them in more realistic terms. Possibly, the fortunes have come true; maybe we just didn’t see them for what they were, our expectations being as high as they are. Maybe these proverbs of hope, or prophecies of expectations for our life, really do come true – but their reality is not at all as we imagined.

As it turns out, a prediction from a Chinese fortune cookie could come true for two people at the same time, living in two entirely different worlds; but the fortune cookie prophecies might not be the miraculous-life-altering- grandiose events we anticipated. You see, it’s all how your look at life.

Let’s compare how Chinese Fortune Cookie fortune could come true for a Canadian and a Los Angeleno at the same time:

Chinese Fortune Cookie words of wisdom that I liked and kept! And it you look closely match the Chinese Fortune Cookie Predictions below!

“Good news will be coming your way. It will be here any day!”

Canadian – ‘The Arctic wind chill that was predicted to make today’s temperature feel like -60 degrees Celsius, has veered south, so head out and enjoy this crisp wintery -29 degree day. But don’t forget your tuque eh, as exposed skin will still freeze in less than a minute!

Angeleno – ‘It looks like the frigid cold snap we have been experiencing from that Canadian Arctic blast, that has been bringing daytime temperatures to the low 50’s, has ended. Today will reach 65, so you can grab a heavy sweater and leave your winter jacket behind!

“You will soon receive pleasant news of a personal nature.”

Canadian – The groundhog didn’t see his shadow today; Spring is only six weeks away! I will finally be able to wear my new heels I bought on sale last Fall, once the snow melts!

Canadian – You get a free ‘double-double’ at Tim Hortons when you buy a dozen Tim Bits!

Angeleno – Valet parking, that normally runs $20 at this fine establishment, is comp for the event! Sweeeet!

“Your talents will be rewarded and recognized.’’

Canadian – You were right, the Oilers won in overtime, the Molsons are on me tonight!

Angeleno – OMG you were right, that guy was married; you totally saved me from getting hurt by that lying loser. Your social media investigative skills are brilliant, can I buy you a drink as a thank you?

“The coming month shall bring winds of change in your life.”

Canadian – The wind from the storm that caused Tornados to touch down in parts of Manitoba, blew down three trees in my yard. I’ve got hours of yard work to do now!

Angeleno – The damn Santa Ana’s winds are blowing again, and my allergies are out of control. I need to buy some waterproof mascara, as my eyes are running constantly!

“When the flowers bloom, so will be great joy in your life.”

Canadian – I am so sick of the winter and the snow, I will actually leap for joy when I see the dandelions growing in my grass.

Angeleno – Finally my neighbor’s bougainvillea are blooming, at least now I don’t have to see his dumb ass through the fence.

“You are headed in the right direction. Trust your instincts.”

Canadian – I have driven this road a hundred times. This blizzard isn’t going to keep me from going to the hockey game tonight.

Angeleno – I don’t care what ‘WAZE’ is telling you to do – this is my hood, take Olympic!

“You will be traveling and coming into a fortune.”

Canadian – So glad I took my car out in this ‘sheeety’ weather eh. Both the Superstore and Canadian Tire were having sales; I save a ‘sheeet-load!’

Angeleno– OMG it is so true, Gas is way cheaper in the desert. Dude, I saved a ton!

“You will be rewarded for being a good listener.”

Canadian – ‘I am so glad you heard that there was black ice on that section of the highway. I took the four wheel drive and passed at least 10 cars that hit the ditch on that stretch of road. I owe you one, buddy.’

Angeleno – “Thank God you heard that President Obama was in town. If you hadn’t told me which roads to avoid, I would have been stuck in a traffic-nightmare-from-hell and would have missed my audition entirely. I so owe you a cocktail!

“You have a captivating style all your own.”

Canadian – ‘Seriously, I get a lot of compliments when I pair my Winnipeg Jets jersey with my Jets tuque and Jets mitts. A fashion statement ‘fur shur’, you betcha!’

Angeleno – ‘My fashion tip; Tiaras go with everything!’

Allow yourself time – you will reach success.”

Canadian – ‘I finally skied the summit at Lake Lousie! And it was awesome, Fuckin’ eh!

Angeleno – ‘OMG I biked 20 miles in the spin class today, my best ever. I never thought I could do it. I am drenched in sweat. You know, Equinox made me do it, lol!’

You see….It is all how you look at life. There are miracles every day in your life, and good things happen every day….Enjoy each day, make the most of it, don’t wait for a Fortune Cookie Fortune to come true. Don’t keep hoping that you will win the lottery and then your life will be great. Make the most and best of your life now – make your own miracles happen and live your life, as this life we have is truly…a Gift.

A little wine and a Chinese Fortune Cookie are great ways to end a meal of Chinese Food Take-Out!

If you enjoyed this story, or were inspired please like, forward, or share with a friend. Or if it made you crave Chinese food and wine, well then….enjoy!

If you are stuck in traffic going from the 10 to the 405 to the…… you can click on the audio link below. xo